


Discount Monsters

by orphan_account



Category: Being Human (UK)
Genre: Disgustingly fluffy, George Totally Falls for This, Happy Ending, Illegal Living Arrangements, M/M, Mitchell Is Horribly Manipulative, Mitchell's Hair, Nudity, Pre-Annie, Sharing a Bath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2018-01-01 00:20:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1038114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A vampire and a werewolf are sharing a tub in a hospital and no, before you ask, this is not a set up for a joke.  There is no punch line.<br/>Well, George might get punched, actually, but he's not bloody laughing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Discount Monsters

**Author's Note:**

> I don't care if no one reads these, I will stubbornly continue to post them anyway. I am but a humble (and prolific!) spammer, yes indeed; also I have my little imaginary kingdom where this story did not end in epic sadness and I make no apologies for that.
> 
> Although this is the last of the oneshots that I've written for this fandom that did not epically suck, so... yes. I've done my damage.
> 
> Whatevs. Hope someone gets a kick out of them besides me!

The worst part about living with Mitchell was the cramped quarters.  
  
It’s not like George was expecting the Four Seasons or anything, but he was taking up with a vampire, and didn’t that mean selling off your soul just a little bit? You were supposed to be properly reimbursed.  
  
Only as far as George could tell, Mitchell was a bit of a discount vampire. He didn’t drink blood very often, he wore secondhand band logo T-shirts, and he couldn’t transform into a bat. Oh, and he wasn’t a complete tosser (actually, Mitchell was quite alright, but George would come to that in a bit).  
  
So apparently you got bargain-bin accommodations, if you went for a bargain-bin soulless monster. Right now George was actually living out of the disableds, because it supposedly had never got repaired, and George had a sneaking suspicion that in fact it _hadn’t_ ever been, and it’s just that Mitchell was indeed possessed of mechanical repair skills—and lying. Because no one actually needed to have their rattling wheel fixed that many times unless they were pulling your leg.  
  
So, right. Bathroom. It had a limited water supply—limited in that when it decided they’d had enough, it just shut itself off. So they mostly nipped into the employee areas for water, but when it came to hygiene that wasn’t entirely possible, so there was the dilemma. After the third time George’s stopgap shower (which was running the sink tap, splashing it all over, and scrubbing viciously) drained their supplies and left Mitchell looking steadily more homeless, adjustments had to be made.  
  
It was all very reasonable, then, when you looked at it that way.  
  
“We’ve got to find a flat,” George continued, because he literally had been unable to stop talking for the past twenty minutes. It was _horrible_. “I mean it, Mitchell. We’ve both got paying jobs, and we’d be proper tenants, and there’s got to be somewhere close by. We could even take the tube. It’s been a while since I’ve been on the tube. Can you even go on them, now that they have cameras all over the place?”  
  
“I prefer not to risk it,” Mitchell drawled from behind George. He sounded amused.  
  
“Oh? Well I suppose that’s quite practical,” George continued to babble. “I mean, if you’re a vampire. For the rest of us, it’s just the fees—always so bloody expensive, you know? Only now I can hold down a job, so I really could do the tube—only _you_ can’t, so I guess that resolves that issue and we’ll simply have to find a flat within walking because this isn’t right. What are we even going to do over the holidays?”  
  
“Spoken like someone who has never been a vagrant,” Mitchell answered. He shifted slightly, and George tried not to flinch. He failed. At least not that much water came out of the tub. Mitchell groaned at him. “Would you just _chill out?_ ”  
  
“It’s funny that you mention that—chill—you know, because that’s what we’ll be feeling come Christmas,” George answered with slightly desperate practicality. “Chilled. Or possibly frostbitten, because we know they’re bound to turn down the heat, or what if it’s locked up and we can’t leave, we’ll be living on canned beans and that’s not healthy, we’ll be nutritionally deficient and susceptible to the—“  
  
At this point (perhaps rather wisely) Mitchell put his hand over George’s mouth. For once, it was absent the usual gloves. As, in fact, the rest of Mitchell was.  
  
Not absent the gloves, that wasn’t what George meant; but absent _all_ of his clothing, which had been tossed into careless disarray on the floor next to George’s neatly folded shirt and trousers. As in, Mitchell was unclad. As in, Mitchell was _naked_.  
  
Yes, naked. And if you didn’t understand why that was such a distressing fact, clearly you’d never met John Mitchell, He of the bedroom eyes and unfairly persuasive smiles.  
  
That smile was at least half the reason that they were in this situation, but George wasn’t to be rushed. He’d explain it all in his own good time.  
Mitchell’s hand was wet and hot and now George’s lips were tingling.  
  
“George,” the vampire said, “Won’t you please take a breath between sentences?”  
  
Well, actually, George said, I find it helps to take a breath once every other sentence, because if I try to breathe during the sentence, that’s too much pressure and I somehow end up breathing even faster than I would have otherwise and does that ever happen to you?  
  
Or, he tried to say it, but Mitchell’s hand was in the way, clamping firmly over his lips whenever they moved.  
  
“This is actually pretty nice,” Mitchell remarked with a chuckle. “It’s a good look for you. Like a muzzle.”  
  
George carefully took aim. Mitchell yelped slightly (George had very bony elbows). He also released George’s mouth, which was rather the point. “Jesus, it was just a joke! Lighten up, would you?”  
  
“I hate the dog jokes,” George muttered.  
  
Yeah, George was a werewolf too. He was always forgetting to mention that. Not terribly important unless it was a full moon, which it wasn’t. That occasion was two days away, and George was happy ignoring it.  
  
“Sorry,” Mitchell said after a moment. The water sloshed slightly.  
  
And you see, that was really what the trouble here was. Not the living arrangements, or even the naked in a tub thing.  
  
George and Mitchell—unlikely though it may have been—got on. There were hiccups, what with George discovering that vampires were a bunch of racist bastards and while Mitchell seemed to have no problems in practice, he tended to say dreadfully stupid things. And yes, well, George maybe shouldn’t have immediately quizzed Mitchell about whether or not vampires slept in coffins or were afraid of garlic or how many people he’d killed. That had _possibly_ been in bad taste.  
  
It was because Mitchell had a sense of humor that made the bleak turn interesting again, and he’d made George laugh for the first time in three months, and his questionable taste in telly (which they didn’t have either) provoked conversations that lasted hours too long. And because Mitchell might poke fun at George for being a little high-strung, but he never tried to force him to stop counting the crisps in the packet or organizing their cardboard box of food supplies, and if George was going over the edge, Mitchell didn’t treat it like a joke.  
  
It was because George had got in the habit of not liking anyone because they’d never understand what he was, and because they didn’t have to be what he was. It was resentment, and it was ugly—but that was the truth. Liking Mitchell was uncomfortable territory because George was out of practice.  
  
It didn’t help that Mitchell suggested things like getting naked together as a water conservation measure. George might have forgotten how friendships worked, but there were probably some inappropriate feelings involved here. George was determinedly blaming them on the closeness of his transformation and the fact that he was socially deprived, and Mitchell having really pretty eyes.  
  
That was a highly objective observation.  
  
They were pretty. Sort of honey-colored.  
  
Mitchell was being really unfair too, because when George had been busily gaping at Mitchell for making questionable suggestions, Mitchell had shrugged and started filling the bathtub with water that immediately sent up a cloud of steam. They hadn’t had hot water in two days. While George stared longingly (at the water!) Mitchell quite casually stripped his top off, and then gave George a look that was clearly intended to make him capitulate. That, or make his mouth go dry and his heart pound like a maligned landlord’s fist, which was what actually happened.  
  
And because Mitchell was ostensibly bent on getting naked in a tub of hot water and George _would_ admit, at least, to very much wanting a hot bath—well look, his only alternative would have been to stand about awkwardly while Mitchell bathed. And that would be all embarrassment and wandering eyes and Mitchell—he’d probably make those noises in the bath. You know, ones designed to make George’s ears turn red, and draw inappropriate analogies, like he did that time they’d bought a proper cake and it had been so long since Mitchell had had raspberry and how bloody good for him; George could no longer look at anything to do with raspberries without turning beet red and considering professional help.  
  
And since even that wouldn’t be sufficiently obnoxious for John Mitchell, he’d also have to do something further. Psychological warfare. Perhaps Mitchell would refuse to wash his hair until _George_ was forced to come over and do it for him. And then he’d end up being gradually convinced to get into the tub because he was soaked anyway and really, Mitchell had already won, so George might as well accept defeat gracefully and hurry up before the water cooled off.  
  
So George had wisely headed off the entire disaster by just agreeing to share the bath. Critical thinking in action, that.  
  
(Though he did fold his trousers with surgical precisions first. And forced Mitchell to turn the other way while George slipped into the water.)  
  
“You’re so pale,” Mitchell said now, sounding fascinated. George very nearly turned around to frown at him for making blindingly obvious observations. “It’s really—“ George jumped, sending out another cascade of water.  
  
“Don’t touch me!” George snapped, thrashing Mitchell’s hand off his shoulder. “You are _not_ to touch me,” he informed Mitchell for the third time. “If we’re going to share the hot water in this—this simultaneous immersion technique—“  
  
“Called _sharing a bath_ ,” Mitchell added unhelpfully.  
  
“—we shall do so with no unnecessary contact. Three inches shall be maintained between all persons at all times,” George finished loftily.  
  
“There’s only the two of us in here, you know,” Mitchell commented out after a moment. “You don’t have to say ‘all persons’.” He was rather missing the point.  
  
He proved this by touching George’s shoulder again, lighter this time. George shivered—totally reflexive, therefore not his fault—and growled in the back of his throat.  
  
It would have been nice if it was a human sort of growl.  
  
There was a pause, where Mitchell was very much not touching George, and George was contemplating the potential effects of inhaling large quantities of hot bathwater. Then Mitchell’s finger ghosted over his skin again—George shuddered—and as a rumble built in his throat, George barked over it, “I mean it, Mitchell, stop!”  
  
Mitchell sighed behind him. “Oh, if I must.” The water sloshed as he settled back. Silence reigned supreme. George took a lot of deep breaths. And then, “You sounded like the wolf there.”  
  
“Mitchell,” George groaned.  
  
“I’m just saying,” Mitchell defended lightly. “Did it feel like the wolf?” When George stonily ignored him, he put forth, “It’s important to talk about these things, George. You can’t bottle it all up and just hope it goes away.”  
  
“Yes, I can,” George protested. “Now stop talking about it. In fact, new rule: no talking.”  
  
Mitchell heaved another much put-upon sigh. “Am I allowed to do _anything?_ ”  
  
“ _Bathe_ ,” George stressed, with perhaps a bit more venom than strictly necessary.  
  
“So we’re just going to sit in perfect silence, being naked and uncomfortable with ourselves, is that it?”  
  
“Yes,” George answered, sulking at this point. Mitchell was not capable of embarrassment. This much was clear.  
  
“Sod that,” Mitchell announced. “Let’s make this a bonding experience, George.” Arms snaked around George’s middle and he squawked at the indignity, which prompted Mitchell to laugh and squeeze him. “Come on, this could be fun! Go with the flow.”  
  
“Says the vampire!” George huffed, slapping ineffectually at Mitchell’s hands, which had now locked over his belly.  
  
“We’re mates, right?” And oh no—that was his coaxing voice. This would lead nowhere good. As George was shivering at the silky feeling _in his ears_ , Mitchell dropped his chin onto George’s shoulder in a concerted effort to make him have an actual panic attack, and _lured_. It was like seeing the hook in front of your nose and swimming for it anyway.  
  
“This shouldn’t have to be awkward,” Mitchell murmured. “It’s not like the world will end because I see you naked.”  
  
“Oh dear,” said George. Mitchell’s stubbly throat vibrated against his collarbone when he spoke. It made it very hard to swallow.  
  
“And besides that,” Mitchell added, adjusting his grip—and in the process tugging George back into him. Their legs were brushing together now, and George’s snapped closed firmly to protect his dignity. He could sense Mitchell rolling his eyes. “Really?—Oh come on, we’re both blokes here. Loosen up.”  
  
Which traditionally had never been a problem (the blokes bit; loosening up, admittedly, had always been a problem), but George’s life had changed quite a lot these past few months. Werewolf, vampire, unexpected homosexual urges, hello; lovely to meet you. Don’t let the door hit you on the arse on the way _out_ , seriously, _no_ , please _leave_.  
  
(Mitchell could stay, though).  
  
This was hopeless.  
  
Mitchell gave George another firm tug, until George’s back bumped against his chest. He felt completely wrapped up in Mitchell, in the water, left to overheat. It was working—George’s senses were vindictively aware of every inch of his conquered personal space, informing him of ripples in the water currents, the cold gust of Mitchell’s breath, and his chest hair bristling against George’s shoulders. Mitchell was colder than the water, like when you’ve just put on a new sweater and it settles around you, slowly matching your warmth.  
  
George was feeling somewhat adrenaline sick.  
  
“Relax,” Mitchell whispered, right against George’s ear. George shivered, ducking his head, and then—miraculously—he was relaxing.  
  
Alright, it was no miracle, at least not in the traditional sense. Mitchell’s touch turned firm with purpose.  
  
Mitchell’s hands dug into his shoulders and George moaned without the slightest intention to. It was a terrible, throaty, viciously inappropriate sound, and when Mitchell chuckled into George’s ear, George did it again, softer. Mitchell’s fingers ground through aching tension, and between cool skin and warm water, George was melting all the way in his bones. He didn’t have a chance at all.  
  
“Oh my god,” George sighed, collapsing slightly into the side of the tub. Arcs of pure pleasure were fanning into his neck, like a good stretch in the morning, only so much better because the last time George had stretched without hurting himself had been…  
  
Um…  
  
Alright, thinking was hard.  
  
“Did you somehow grow rocks in here?” Mitchell remarked dryly. “Jesus, George. There’s tense and then there’s _ridiculous_.” His fingers pressed deeper with an audible crack and George groaned with relief as another knot of stiff muscle turned to slush.  
  
“Remind me later,” Mitchell murmured, fingers gliding all over the place. “I’ll give you a proper massage.”  
  
“Okay,” George slurred, and meant it. His spine was buzzing fit to burst into song. And he would have agreed to anything anyway, between Mitchell’s voice and the way that touching was suddenly the best idea in the world.  
  
For a little while Mitchell was mostly quiet and the only sounds in the room were the splashes of water and the involuntary whines coming out of George’s throat when Mitchell found a particularly good spot. And then Mitchell murmured, “You really are so pale. You should get out more.”  
  
“So should you,” George muttered.  
  
“Vampire,” Mitchell reminded him ruefully. “Sun. Doesn’t mix well.”  
  
“You could,” George argued dizzily. “It’s not like you burst into flames. We could do it together.”  
  
“And what would we do?” Mitchell asked delicately, and drew another wrenching click out of George’s spine that felt like heaven.  
  
George considered this. “Get hammered,” he decided.  
  
Mitchell laughed. “Is that _really_ the only acceptable male bonding experience?”  
  
“You are indecent,” George complained, which wasn’t really a complaint. His whole back felt custardy and the light circles Mitchell was rubbing between his shoulder blades were better than sex. George desperately wanted to arch into the touch. But he couldn’t, could he? That would have been odd, and Mitchell would never let him hear the end of it. No, he should just settle down and try to…  
  
Well, try to feel less euphoria about Mitchell’s hands on him. See? It even _sounded_ wrong.  
  
“You’re just afraid of letting people touch you,” Mitchell said without any particular emphasis. George immediately felt chilly, then uncomfortable, and then radically defensive.  
  
“That’s not true,” he said, and failed to think of an argument that didn’t resort to petty name-calling.  
  
“If you say so,” Mitchell agreed. “Then how about we give each other a hand with the washing?” When George didn’t reply (due mostly to abject horror), Mitchell added, “We haven’t really got enough room to do it separately anyway. And I’m going to see you naked sooner or later.”  
  
“No, you most certainly will not,” George snapped. “You’re not allowed to come near me when I transform, Mitchell. You already made that promise, and I will lock you in a church or something—“  
  
“And there you go, tensing back up again,” the vampire said dryly. “Look, if you don’t want to do it—“  
  
“I’ll do it,” George said, mostly in a fit of masculine ego. In the minutes that followed, he sorely regretted his ego’s existence, and Mitchell made his back pop again. At that point—because he wasn’t expecting it, because it was all Mitchell’s fault—George really did arch into the touch.  
  
Mitchell laughed, and rubbed a little more vigorously. “Better?”  
  
George, whose eyelids were fluttering closed, produced an unintelligible grunt.  
  
A washcloth replaced one of Mitchell’s hands, rubbing gently against his shoulder blade. “Ack,” said George. His friend’s other hand stuck around, massaging in time with the cloth, outlining him. George willed himself not to stiffen up. It failed anyway, but Mitchell rubbed the tension back out of him, washcloth flitting back and forth between the soap and George’s spine.  
  
“It’s just soap, George,” Mitchell snickered. “I think you can handle it.”  
  
Alright, George took it all back. Mitchell? Clearly evil. Definitely vampiric.  
  
Oh god, and amazingly good with his hands.  
  
He kept tracing George’s vertebra all the way down and each time George had no choice but to shiver and swallow a sound of alarm. He’d probably never been so thoroughly clean in his life—he never wanted to stop—they were wasting soap. Mitchell reached around to his front without warning. George’s thoughts frayed into rather vocal panic and he prepared to throw himself out of the tub.  
  
Mitchell froze with an arm halfway around him and one hand preemptively on the top of George’s head.  
  
“I’m just handing you the cloth,” he drawled. “Unless you want me to—“  
  
George snatched the cloth away quickly, blushing and resenting the both of them.  
  
To his dismay, Mitchell’s arms gave chase.  
  
“What are you doing?!” George demanded in another one of those I Will Forever Deny This voices. Mitchell chuckled behind him, not exactly disemboweling George and feasting on his entrails or touching anything that was inappropriately... excited, but apparently playing tug of war with the washcloth. “ _Oh my god_ , Mitchell, stop that right this minute!”  
  
Mitchell just laughed again and splashed bathwater on George’s neck—George nearly sprang out of the tub in surprise and did relinquish the washcloth. Mitchell reclaimed his prize with a cackle, one arm snaking firmly around George’s ribs. “I forgot something,” Mitchell wickedly declared, and the washcloth was smoothing suds over George’ arm.  
  
George, contained and spluttering, couldn’t quite form words other than ‘what’. He said that a few times, Mitchell ignored him, and then he subsided into deeply affronted silence while Mitchell scrubbed his skin gently.  
  
“You’ve got quite a lot of muscle,” Mitchell remarked, sliding the cloth up and down George’s arm. “When do you work out?”  
  
“Full moon,” George managed, frustration and confusion making his voice dull.  
  
“Just then?” Mitchell asked, continuing to leisurely soap him up.  
  
 _Not just then_ , George wanted to say. _Whenever I see you without your top, I get this burning urge to visit the gym and sometimes I actually go._ His skin was beginning to get oversensitive. Searching for any contact that might help him—what was he even thinking of doing in their bathwater? No, no, no. This was so _wrong_.  
  
Mitchell soaped the washcloth again and massaged it into George’s skin, humming a tune George didn’t recognize. George was tingling. Shivering all over. Feeling a little sick, and a little like this might be the most erotic moment of his life.  
  
It had to be the wolf. It was all physical desire and George’s throat had closed too much to tell Mitchell that seriously, it wasn’t funny, he needed to stop. He _needed_ to stop, or their strange house of cards friendship was going to end up around them on the floor, along with George’s blood when Mitchell punched his face in.  
  
By the time Mitchell got to George’s wrist, George’s jaw was clenched tight enough that yes, there were indeed moments when you fretted about your teeth possibly shattering.  
  
“Does that feel nice?” Mitchell asked, innocent and calm as George’s head lolled back, fingers flexing on air. His strings were being cut, one by one, and it left George with nothing but a libido and sense of panic. Mitchell’s free hand was still hugging George into him, and he was the same temperature as the water now. Warm. Sturdy. Intoxicating. That was unbearable too; Mitchell’s skin. Anyone who was exposed didn’t have a chance. Mitchell chuckled, “See, I told you.” While George sluggishly tried to work out what he’d been told (aside from good advice about Vampires and Do Not), Mitchell added, “It could be fun.”  
  
George shook his head, which was about the extent of what he currently felt capable of. Mitchell’s laugh ghosted by his ear and George offered his other arm without being asked.  
  
He couldn’t stop.  
  
Mitchell whispered into his ears, “This is fun. C’mere, George, turn around. I can’t reach.”  
  
“I,” George bit his lip to stop the whimper that wanted to follow. Mitchell was touching a spot on the inside of his elbow that sent sparks up to his eyelids. “I don’t think—“  
  
Mitchell huffed. The hands pulled away, and George was following them. It was at least 90% mindless.  
  
 _Don’t look at his face_ , George warned himself. _Don’t look. Do not, just don’t do it, whatever you’re going to see—_  
  
This entire thing was probably just skinship and Mitchell being an idiot and George had no business thinking otherwise. He didn’t need to look. He needed to get out of this tub and put several layers of clothing between him and Mitchell’s hands. He _didn’t need to look_. He didn’t need to prove how desperate he was by filling his eyes up with Mitchell’s face and searching for the slightest sign that he knew what he was doing and the fact that George was getting off on it.  
  
But he looked anyway, because that’s just what you did when you were so far gone over someone that the pounding of your heart could make the water sway around you.  
  
Mitchell eyed George, looking a little smug. He was half-smiling. George… didn’t know what he was looking at.  
  
Other than it being Mitchell, who was gorgeous and funny and made shapes on his toast with ketchup (who put ketchup on toast?) and whatever he and George were doing, it was _so_ much worse when Mitchell was visible.  
  
George’s throat closed and his body burned hot just because he was naked in front of Mitchell’s eyes. He was officially sick in the head. He could have done any number of terrible things on the spot, without the slightest thought of propriety, just to have Mitchell watching him do them.  
  
And the thing is, he really would have done. The wolf, or his lust had him completely, and the only thing that stopped George was Mitchells hands, pulling him close again, all tangled limbs and dark eyes.  
  
“George,” Mitchell said, fondly. He passed over the washcloth. George stared a little stupidly.  
  
So—that was it? Fun’s over, back to our regularly scheduled programming. Get a grip, wash yourself off, and we’ll go back to being clothed in each other’s company. It doesn’t go any farther. It must have been a power trip, or—or just Mitchell’s way of saying he knew that George sometimes couldn’t help but stare at him or—  
  
Wordlessly, George dropped his eyes to the cloth, reached for the soap. Soaped it up, moved to scrub the fluttering heat off his skin and hopefully, whatever part of him thought that he could...  
  
Well, you know. Even imagine.  
  
But when he touched the cloth to his own skin, Mitchell flicked water at him.  
  
“What are you doing?” Mitchell asked, and George looked up. Mitchell was giving him a lightly amused grin. “Return the favor. I did you, you do me.” He held out his arms, eyes twinkling, mouth curved up, and as George stared he noticed a distinct lack of vampire asshattery.  
  
It almost looked like…  
  
“You want me to—?” George frowned, gestured wildly, and promptly got soap in his eye.  
  
Mitchell watched him carefully as George grimaced. Ow, dammit. “Oh. Changed your mind?”  
  
What fresh trial was _this_ , now? Had Mitchell just given George an out? Were they playing gay chicken, or was this actually normal—had Mitchell _really_ not noticed? George felt like every thought was on his face. Always so transparent.  
  
George’s face was burning and he’d been thinking of all the ways he could blame this on the wolf when he knew perfectly well why he couldn’t look away. This was a stupid, unacceptable _crush_. Mitchell was everything in the world that George wanted to touch—and nothing he ever could because guys like John Mitchell wouldn’t even end up with someone like George if he was a _girl_ , which he was _not_.  
  
The soap stung.  
  
And the bathwater was too hot; George was getting boiled and it had already bleached all the thoughts out of his head. That was George’s explanation for reaching out with shaking hands and a washcloth. Tentatively, he pressed it to Mitchell’s neck. Mitchell hummed and closed his eyes in response.  
  
George’s throat was closing. He didn’t understand this. Was this Mitchell’s disturbed way of saying ‘mate, I know and trust you anyway?’ George didn’t know _what_ he was expected to do about it.  
  
So he just said sod it and did as he pleased.  
  
Mitchell was just as sturdy as he felt before—all lithe muscle and olive skin. He really was surreally gorgeous and George wished he could just lose his mind to that, kiss the skin while he cleaned it, take his time to stroke and claim every inch. He wanted it all. He was a straight man’s worst nightmare and he hated himself and really, really just wanted to throw the washcloth in Mitchell’s face and shout at him because this was not even a little bit fair.  
  
But Mitchell’s eyes were closed and here he was, trusting George, and George… couldn’t do it.  
  
So he washed what he could reach that was above the waist, and when Mitchell’s eyes didn’t open (not fast enough, anyway; George couldn’t stop reaching for him), George squeezed out some shampoo and pushed his fingers into Mitchell’s hair.  
  
In fairness, he still was somewhat concerned that Mitchell wouldn’t clean it.  
  
Mitchell’s hair was always so dirty, so greasy from the water shortage and the fact that Mitchell let it go to total disarray. Longer than it looked. Unkempt. That didn’t stop it from looking beautiful, just like the rest of him. It caused a great deal of George’s distracted moments, and was a little problematic besides, because people couldn’t tell if they were speaking to a model or a hobo. It was Mitchell’s emblem, and George had kind of wanted to touch it for a while now. Beneath his fingertips, he was shocked at how silky it was to the touch. He’d never known hair could feel like that.  
  
“Do you ever wash your hair?” George grumbled through the reverence, because the knots wouldn’t come out even a little. And because it was that, or say something he’d never forgive himself for.  
  
“Dunno,” Mitchell breathed, opening his eyes up. The sight of them sent a jolt to the pit of George’s stomach. “Should I?”  
  
“This is fond advice, mind you,” George said like there was no oxygen at all, “ _But wash your hair._ ”  
  
Mitchell’s teeth gleamed in yet another grin. “I’ll keep that in mind. Do you think we should we get out?”  
  
George raised eyebrows at him, still scrubbing at Mitchell’s hair. “So I give you advice, and you try to make me freeze to death while you hog the towels?”  
  
“No,” Mitchell just kept grinning, like he didn’t see the way George was so out of breath. “But I was thinking that it might be easier to do this clothed.” And as George frowned, Mitchell gave a quiet exhalation. “ _George_.”  
  
And the thing was, you couldn’t just accidentally do that tone. You had to be completely drunk or it had to be completely intentional and Mitchell was looking _right_ at George. George’s hands dropped into the water with a splash.  
  
“Oh, thank god,” George breathed, which was not so much a response as every muscle in his body going slack all at once.  
  
For a moment, Mitchell looked confused, and then he threw his head back in the loveliest laugh. It rang all through the room and George could have listened to it all day. Just listened.  
  
“So, you thought I wasn’t interested?” Mitchell asked afterwards, eyes twinkling. “I was flirting, you know. Or is this another vampire question?”  
  
George scowled at him in response. He hadn’t really thought much farther than the total impossibility of this situation ever arising. Already, he was blinking away and ordering himself not to analyze this, to let it go. It was an accident, a mistake, he was asleep—  
  
“George,” Mitchell said, fastening his hands around the back of George’s neck and towing him in, “Not to be presumptuous, but I’ve been interested for a while now. Certainly, I was interested before you got in the bath.” At George’s open-mouthed stare, he added a little hastily, “Not that I’d have done anything you didn’t want. It’s just, I thought…”  
  
“But you said— _blokes!_ ” George gaped, a little bit beyond words. “Mates! What was all that about!”  
  
“Getting you naked in an enclosed space with me?” Mitchell shrugged at George’s expression. “Oh, come on. I’m a vampire. We’re not exactly all about scruples.”  
  
George spluttered some more. “But—but why? I’m just—and there are so many—and you’re not—“ He attempted to gesture his way out of the hole he was digging for himself. Mitchell’s eyebrows went up. He appeared to be enjoying this.  
  
“I don’t think we’re quite to the point in this relationship when we start fishing for compliments,” Mitchell pointed out, making George flush hard enough that his face hurt. Did that actually happen? Apparently, it happened to George. The world was a lovely place.  
  
Mitchell cleared his throat and broke out into a smile wicked enough that George felt like he should shield his eyes. And out of all the filthy things Mitchell could have said to have George eating out of the palm of his hand, all he said was, “You’re lovely, George.”  
  
And George, who had a list of ways to deny any compliment at all, and insecurities he wasn’t even able to voice, and a list of reasons he could lull himself to sleep with about Why You Need to Stop Thinking about This—just whispered, “Really?”  
  
Mitchell’s eyes had gone soft and warm at the sound. “I think,” he whispered back, bending closer to share their secret, “That now might be a good time to have our first kiss.”  
  
“Now?” George gaped at him, mouth running on autopilot. “Because I was planning on next week? The weather, you know, I had the whole thing planned…”  
  
“I think we might have to divert your plans.”  
  
“That’s okay,” George said. He swallowed, and even so, his voice came out in a shaking mess, of course, and he winced. “I, I… like your idea better.”  
  
Mitchell shifted forward slowly, like he was trying to keep from startling a stray. His eyes alone felt like they could hold George still. The water splashed—and oh god, they were still naked, what were they even—  
  
And George ran out of time to panic as Mitchell pushed their lips together a little more awkwardly than he’d thought Mitchell would.  
  
George was left shaking for reasons that had little to do with lust and more to do with the fact that his entire world was coming apart at the seams. Their breath was mingling and Mitchell’s eyes were shut like he was savoring it. George couldn’t quite remember the taste of the briefest swipe of Mitchell’s tongue, so he kissed him again—jolted away because god, George, he didn’t say you could—  
  
“No, come here,” Mitchell growled, and kissed him again, _slowly_ , until George had both his hands buried in Mitchell’s hair once again.  
  
Mitchell pulled back and said, “Do you know how I knew you liked me?”  
  
 _Because you have that hair and everyone likes you_ , George thought, mostly brain-dead. _And because you probably heard my heart literally stop around you_. “Nnghb,” George said instead, leaning into Mitchell’s lips because he just didn’t care.  
  
Mitchell laughed and kissed him back.

\----

Later on, they were still in the bathtub, not much cleaner, and definitely both pruny. Before this, George had wondered if vampires even got pruny. See? Learning important things all the time.  
  
“Okay,” George said, because he’d gone long enough without Mitchell’s lips that speaking was an option again, “Mitchell. Would a thank you be inappropriate?”  
  
“Couldn’t hurt,” Mitchell said with a lazy, satisfied smile.  
  
“Thank you,” George decided to say, before cuddling into Mitchell’s shoulder. Mitchell swung an arm around him and George did the same. It felt ridiculous, quaint, and he was so happy he could have split his face with the smile he had.  
  
“George?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“When I said you were lovely, I meant that…” Mitchell paused, shifting slightly. Almost a fidget. George looked up. He wasn’t fishing for compliments, honestly, but if Mitchell took it back right now, he was not above having an anxiety attack.  
  
tell you about all of it yet, but, I mean…” He was looking at George now, and George was shocked by the boiling intensity in his gaze. “Will you stay?”  
  
Mitchell actually wanted him to—no, George already knew that. Mitchell really did want George around for some reason, whether it was charity or loneliness or that thing that happened sometimes, when he’d be looking at some girl in the hall and his eyes got too dark and George would create some loud distraction even though it would make everyone stare at him like he was an idiot.  
  
But Mitchell didn’t really ask for things. He made offers that were meant to sound impromptu and careless. He tricked you into the tub.  
  
“Even if it’s this,” Mitchell said, a little dryly as he shrugged to indicate the bathroom around him, “Do you think you could stick around?”  
  
There was only one answer available.  
  
  
Mitchell blinked at him.  
  
Then he smiled so wide that George snorted, and they both tumbled into the water, sending up a great splash that would make everything soggy. George knocked his knee into the bottom (and suspected that thudding noise was Mitchell’s head), and the bathwater was cold by now but none of that particularly mattered.  
  
“Technically,” Mitchell said seriously, after he’d kissed George senseless, “We don’t _ever_ have to get out.”  
  
“That is not an option,” George pointed out dryly, but he leaned up into the kiss for all he was worth.

\----

A week later there was the Pink House, and a month after that, George was finally used to Annie (enough to admit that he really did quite like her). And they had a home, all proper and with a cleaning rota and recyclable trash on Saturdays. It wasn’t all floral arrangements and lemongrass tea, but it got suspiciously close and some afternoons, Mitchell would just grin at George wordlessly and Annie would tell them that they were disgustingly sweet, and they could argue about the telly they now had, with their feet all tangled together.  
  
They’d go to bed early and get up early, and they probably annoyed their neighbors, but ‘worth it’ didn’t even come close.


End file.
